


The Endless String of Summer Storms

by saltslimes



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Poisoning, big warning for puke, i did also puke while writing this so its v accurate, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25123540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltslimes/pseuds/saltslimes
Summary: Even before he's a member of the crownsguard, Prompto ends up taking a bullet for Noctis. Metaphorically speaking (although it nearly kills him all the same).
Comments: 22
Kudos: 305





	The Endless String of Summer Storms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [novembercomes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembercomes/gifts).



> I don't put warnings on my fics that much cuz you all know me, but I will say I think this one might be more gross? Than usual? Because I did take a break in the middle to actually throw up in my human life. So it's that lived experience type flavor.
> 
> title is from a tmg song (what else?!) 1 John 4:16, in this case, which I think goes nicely with the notion of being poisoned.
> 
> This is a fill for [this](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/5690.html?thread=11477050#cmt11477050) kinkmeme prompt

Prompto had rich cousins (or like, relatively rich, in the scheme of things) but nothing he ever witnessed at their manor of a house could prepare him for formal events in the Citadel. The room was hung with lamps that seemed to float, and tables practically dripped with bizarre gold desserts and weird configurations of shrimp. One part of Prompto wanted to touch everything, one part of him wanted to photograph everything, and the part of him winning out was the part that  _ insisted  _ he keep his arms locked at his sides and not do anything stupid.

Noctis finally separated himself from whatever conversation he’d been trapped in, and came over to Prompto bearing a blush-pink beverage with ice that was beginning to melt.

“Gods, I thought I was gonna die of old age,” he said. He pushed the drink into Prompto’s hand.

“Do you want this? I’m not into these weird drinks with flowers in them.”

“It looks nice,” Prompto said, taking a sip. It was sweet but somewhat salty, and something about the aftertaste made him think of medicine, but it probably cost about half a year’s tuition, so he drank the rest.

One of the countless staff in white shirts and black aprons took the cup from his hand the moment it was empty.

“So is this what you do at these things?” Prompto asked. Noct huffed a sigh.

“Literally just stand around and be conversationally assaulted by random nobles I barely know. And they met me when I was four or something and expect me to remember.”

“Wow, what a  _ burden _ ,” Prompto said. Noct rolled his eyes. Begged was not the right word to describe what he had done, but insisted might be. Prompto tried several lines of excuse: he didn’t have a suit, he was (obviously) not supposed to be there. Nothing worked. He caved in the end, because when it came to Noctis, he basically always caved. Seeing him grin was too much to pass up, even if it meant having to borrow a suit.

“We’re like the exact same size,” Noct had assured him, but truthfully, until he put it on, Prompto was sure it would be too tight. In reality, it sort of hung off him. Ignis suggested they take it in. 

“Let’s go upstairs,” Noctis said, tugging the arm of Prompto’s jacket. The mezzanine did appear less crowded, and it overlooked the whole event. Prompto could imagine why Noct would rather be the one looking than being looked at--even just standing in the vicinity of the prince had earned him enough stares and sideways glances to last a lifetime.

The staircase curved elegantly (gods it would be nice to photograph). Headrush hit Prompto on the second step. He’d only had the one drink--could you even get drunk that fast? Noct was oblivious to this, marching steadily upward.

Prompto’s vision blurred for a second, and he got just the image of Noct walking away. Up the stairs--he would walk out of sight, if Prompto let him. He hurried after him. Sweat was breaking out all over his back, and now he felt actually nauseous. But he  _ took  _ his medication. He made  _ sure _ because under no circumstances would he embarrass himself at Noct’s royal event. And yet still, his stomach cramped and clenched uncomfortably. He swallowed bile hard.

Noct stopped, turned back where he was, ten or so steps up.

“Prom?” he asked.

“Coming!” Prompto said quickly. He gripped the banister. If he could make it through an exam, through that track meet from hell, through that day at the arcade, he was certain that he could make it through one royal event. 

Until he was near the top of the steps, and something surged in him, and he threw up pink foam all over the top step. A lady in a silky dress screamed and jumped out of the splatter zone. Noctis turned around. Prompto’s cheeks were on fire, tears of exertion accompanying the embarrassed ones that sprang to his eyes. Noct crouched in front of him, and he genuinely wished the floor would swallow him, and he would vanish.

“Dude, how much did you drink?” Noct’s hand was warm on his upper arm, a comforting presence he didn’t deserve, but took solace in anyways, because his stomach felt like it was shredding from the inside.

“Just the one--” he started, and then another wave forced itself up, all red this time, carnival bright. Black spots popped in his vision. He heard someone swear. His mouth tasted like playground gravel--like metal when it begins to rot under enough rain and sun. The hand on his arm got tighter--so much so that it was almost painful.

Voices above him rose, they were agitated now, and there were more of them. The grip on his arm went away suddenly.

“I understand, but you need to come--”

He did feel his face hit the floor. It felt sticky.

[#]

“-- _ now _ , Noctis. Whoever did this is still in the Citadel.” Ignis was tugging on Noct’s arm with almost uncharacteristic strength (not that he wasn’t strong, but that he was usually gentle).

“No,  _ no. _ He’s--” Noct choked on whatever word that was going to be, and had to swallow it like glass shards.

“The medics are taking care of him. He will be isolated and cared for. You  _ have _ to follow me,” Ignis said. And then, when Noct didn’t move, he added, “There’s nothing you can do here but distract those providing medical attention.” And that was infuriatingly true. With a backward glance over his shoulder at Prompto, who was only  _ now _ being lifted out of a puddle of his own bloody vomit, he let Ignis lead him away. 

[#]

People in movies, in Prompto’s experience, usually passed out after vomiting blood. He wasn’t sure if that was a general falsehood or if he was uniquely unlucky. Either way, his body felt too hot while his skin felt too cold, and someone was attaching leads to the bare skin of his chest, with gloves that smelled like the feeling of someone opening his jaw wider than it was meant to go. And that didn’t make sense, but he thought it anyway, and he swallowed and his throat felt like plastic beginning to fray and splinter from prolonged sun exposure.

And his tongue felt too large for his mouth. He went to draw a breath but there was bile pushing up his throat, so he heaved, and heaved, and someone turned him onto his side, so the liquid pooled beside him. And he could breathe, finally. Everything hurt, but he could breathe, and a sense of relief diffused through him.

He must have slipped out of consciousness, because the next thing he was aware of was that he was in an unfamiliar room, under an unfamiliar ceiling, looking at a plastic, semi-industrial looking table. The pillow was wet under his cheek, but it was still soft. He was cold, but he could sense that he was under a blanket. And he felt scared, and exposed in some way, but he couldn’t focus enough to truly worry about it.

[#]

The medical wing of the citadel stank like bleach, and the smell reminded Gladio of only two things: sitting with his face inches from the toilet bowl, and standing outside the room of someone dead or dying. But he kept his face flat while he walked down the hall, his phone muted and off vibrate, but still lighting up every other step with Noctis’ texts.

He wanted to be happy, and he was, sort of, that Noct finally had a friend, like an actual friend. And in the scheme of things, a friend who takes a bullet (or poisoned drink) for you, even accidentally, is probably worth having. But he still resented the errand, being sent to check up on the kid. He was taken care of. It wasn’t like Gladio’s presence would fix or help anything. But Noct was locked down and threatening escape attempts if he didn’t receive news (and photographic evidence) that his friend was alive.

If nothing else, Gladio admired his tenacity. If only he’d put the same energy into training.

He bypassed the security desk and asked a random staff member, who directed him to an open door down the hall.

“He’s stable,” they said, as Gladio was already heading in the direction. The first thing that hit him in Prompto’s room was the smell. He was lying on his side, under a thin blanket. All the lights were on. The pillow under his head was soaked with vomit. He glanced over his shoulder--someone should be doing something about this, right?

Prompto stirred and made a soft sound, and Gladio’s attention was back on him. He pulled up the single chair: plastic, spindly legs, naturally uncomfortable, and warily touched his knuckles to Prompto’s cheekbone. He was sticky and hot. Gladio pinched his nose shut and left the room, but found the hall empty.

He had to turn a corner before he found an employee.

“The guy in 127,” he started, but wasn’t sure how exactly to continue.

“He’s stable,” they said.

“He’s lying in his own vomit.” When nothing followed this statement, he squared his shoulders. “And I’m waiting for someone to do something about that.” Under his third-most threatening gaze, he oversaw Prompto’s bedding changed. The horrible thing about it was that he seemed vaguely awake throughout it all.

Left alone, he pressed his face hard into the clean pillow, and his body seemed to spasm slightly. For a second, Gladio was afraid he was going to puke again--he was poised to call someone. But instead Prompto turned violet eyes to him, uncomfortably lucid.

“Is Noct okay?” he asked. Gladio almost laughed. He only didn’t because of some deeply regimented sense of formality and gravity.

“ _ You _ got poisoned, not him,” he said. The change was instantaneous. The tension bled out of his shoulders, even his arms seemed to go limp.

“Oh. Good,” he said. Gladio had been meaning to leave. He was going to snap a picture to show Noct, and then get out of the medical wing. Away from the stink of bleach, which made him think exclusively of nausea and death.

Instead, he settled back into the chair, which creaked under his weight and did his back no favors. He sent Noct the picture, and the room number, since Ignis could only delay him so long. And Prompto was still awake, but his eyes were dropping.

“Y’r staying?” he asked, and the hope in the question was too bare--it rubbed Gladio raw.

“Yeah, if you want,” he said. Prompto only responded by falling asleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> ty to G9 for delightful beta and for listening to my rants about one piece. 
> 
> tip of the day: you can make any beverage 87.2% worse by adding blue curaçao


End file.
